


Just Know It Was You

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stupid, waste of a text that follows Sherlock all the way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Know It Was You

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Sophie is my own whim. 
> 
> **Inspired by:** _Revelry_ by The Kings of Leon.
> 
> **A/N:** The text from John is mentioned in _Gone, But Not Forgotten_.

  
  
_Miss you. I’m sorry. I love you. Sophie says hullo. **JW**_  
  
He thought it was Mycroft calling with a new contact location.   
  
Sherlock stares at the mobile in his hand ( The Woman’s, his now, untraceable, calls forwarded from his old mobile, just in case.) He is vaguely aware that he’s cold and tired. And mildly injured. A cut across his right calf. The bleeding is sluggish, gash mostly clotted over.  Small stains on the stone floor of the abandoned church.   
  
Rumble of an airplane high above.   
  
Far away sensations. Background noise. Blending into the thunder and rain and the miasma of frozen breath and cigarette smoke surrounding his head as the sonata he’d been composing in his mind comes to a shrieking halt and his chest constricts in an alarming manner.   
  
_Miss you. I’m sorry. I love you. Sophie says hullo. **JW**_  
  
Sherlock is dead and John should not be texting his mobile.   
  
_Miss you. I’m sorry. I love you. Sophie says hullo. **JW**_  
  
Sherlock is not dead and John is suffering.  
  
He should delete it. Right now. It has no tactical merit, no usefulness in his mission. No purpose. No point.   
  
He should delete it before it ruins him. Before it sinks into his brain and creeps into the nooks and crannies of his Mind Palace to muddle his precise clockwork machinations. Hindering his mission. Obstructing his work.   
  
Before it contaminates him with a sentiment that is likely to translate into hesitation at the most inopportune moment. Dulls his common sense. Strangles his reasoning.  
  
Before it gets him killed.   
  
Sherlock sucks in a lungful of smoke and saves the text.   
  
He won’t read it again.   
  
Except he does.   
  
In Komotini. While sharpening the blade of his knife (Special Forces issue, pristine condition, _silent, silent, silent_ ) before heading out to stalk his very dangerous prey.   
  
Just outside Hanoi. After coming back to the horrid little bedsit covered in the blood of half a dozen men and the young woman who’d gotten caught in the crossfire. He’d left her there. Alone. To bleed out in less than two minutes.  He thinks ( _knows)_ John would have tried to save her, no matter how pointless.   
  
In Baton Rouge. Standing in a dark alley with the newly purchased needle and little bag of white grains and not quite able to throw them to the ground.   
  
In London. Watching John in the park with Mary Morstan. He stares at the words and wonders why they’ve gone all blurry...  
  
In Lashkar Gah. Watching the sun rise over the distant peaks. Listening to the wail of the muezzin. Irene held him last night. Through two bottles of contraband whiskey and the messy sobbing and the sharp hopelessness that still lingers in his aching head. He imagines Captain John H Watson breathing in the same cool desert air.  
  
In Murmansk, Russia. Plotting with Irene. Arguing, at first, but he eventually concedes to her idea. He must return to London. He must lure the final loose end into his net. He must go home. And protect John there.   
  
So he goes home.   
  
And sits on the sofa, waiting for John to return from the shops.   
  
Sherlock keeps the mobile wrapped in his hand inside his coat pocket and holds his breath as John drops the shopping and stares. He’s not certain what to say, so he keeps it simple. “ Hello, John.”    
  
John stumbles back, gasping. One hand clutches in the cardigan and shirt at his chest. The other hand grasps at the armchair behind him.   
  
Sherlock expected this. One of many possible scenarios. It’s still startling to watch.   
  
John slides to the floor by the chair, blatantly struggling for breath. Fighting to stay conscious.   
  
Shock. Concern. Pain _(regretregretregret)_. Sherlock strides across the room. “ John, I’m sorry. I can-.”  Explanation ready to fall out in a long ribbon of carefully prepared words. Hands ready to support. To apologize.   
  
“ D-don’t.” One shake of John’s head, warning hand fending him off.   
  
Stopping Sherlock less than a step away. Dropping him to his knees.   
  
It’s a sharp pain. A deep cut across his mind that bleeds hurt and fear. Mostly fear. An astounding amount of fear. Sherlock hates the cliche, but he swallows thickly.     
  
Unable to touch. Unable to speak. Useless.  
  
And John won’t look at him. Wide eyes staring at the tiny patch of carpet between them. Ragged inhale/exhale, unsteady rhythm.   
  
Sherlock clenches his hand. And remembers the mobile still damp in his fingers. He slowly pulls it out of his pocket. Still uncertain.   
  
Saved Texts.   
  
_Miss you. I’m sorry. I love you. Sophie says hullo. **JW**_  
  
Reply. Text Message. John is watching him now, shaky and dazed. Sherlock doesn’t break the eye contact as he types.    
  
 _Likewise. Don’t be. I know. I’ll visit later. **SH**_  
  
Send.   
  
Sherlock swallows again.  The few seconds’ wait is unbearable.   
  
John’s coat pocket vibrates. He blindly pulls his mobile free, his eyes not leaving Sherlock’s until the message is thumbed onto the screen.   
  
Sherlock watches him read. And read it again. And again.  And then John’s hand is covering his face, his shoulders jerking with two great, hitching sobs before a strangled laugh erupts from his mouth.  The mobile is gripped tightly in his other hand. “ I-I am going to be... so fucking fur-furious... tomorrow... Sherlock. ”     
  
John drops his phone and reaches out.   
  
Relief. Dizzy hope. Sherlock barely registers the dull thud of his own mobile hitting the carpet as he meets John halfway in a desperate embrace.   
  
Things need to be sorted. Things need to be said. But it can all wait. For a while, at least.   
  
He has John in his arms now. Warm, solid, wooly jumpers, cheap shampoo, strong hands, trembling back, emotionally messy, imperfect, ordinary, brilliant John.   
  
Sherlock pushes his nose into John’s greying hair and closes his eyes.   
  
_Home._   
  
**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks for everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!! :D


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